


The second smell

by YuriOokino



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Sherlock disappears, The Dancing Men, The cardboard box, The dying detective, The second spot, canonical cases
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:37:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YuriOokino/pseuds/YuriOokino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story has been written for an italian fanfiction contest and had to fulfill some requests:<br/>Body parts have been sent to the Europe's leaders; John has to solve the case alone; include an empty flat and 'Floris eaux de parfum Sirena'.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have to say thank you, again, to Rachel who has diligently edited my horrible language mistakes (and a bit of syntax).  
> All the complaints to me, please!

The rain beat lazy and insistent on the cold fogged window, dreariness only rivalled by the persistent silence from the London’s criminal community which had dragged my roommate’s mood to a dangerously low level.  
Looking at the grey sky, which seemed trying to enter the apartment, I believed I could see into the dark thoughts of Sherlock Holmes.  
I knew that in these moments it was useless, even dangerous, attempt to establish dialogue with him, so for days I had left him to vegetate on the couch, with the sole company of his violin and blue robe, unique in the world in being able to endure his short temper without protest.  
Still I couldn’t blame him completely. I was pretty sure about the cause of his melancholy, so sure that I could even assign it a name: Jim Moriarty.  
Less than two weeks had passed since our meeting at the pool, two weeks spent in a complete inability to understand exactly what had happened and its implications. Or at least for me. No doubt the mind of Sherlock moved in an entirely different way.  
"I still have some hope, for your brain," was what he said after two days of total silence, as if he resumed a conversation just stopped.  
I gave up on trying to figure out what he meant. "Good for me, then."  
"We can still make sure that it won’t end its barren existence in near ignorance."  
Although I was accustomed to his malicious and cynical comments, especially during those periods of abstinence from crime - and God knows what other more concrete substances - I couldn’t stand unfounded insults, though they were veiled by a clever dialectic.  
"Is something bothering you in particular in my brain or I can get rid of it without too much remorse?"  
"Right now it will make little difference, but there's still time to remedy it."  
Tired of these statements I got up from the chair in the living room to go and retired to my room. As I passed by, Sherlock looked up at the ceiling.  
"People like you, who do not accept the advice of others, won’t ever progress."  
I stopped again before going down the hallway, pointing the finger at him. "Forgive me, ‘great master’, but your statements are not what I usually call ‘advices’."  
He didn’t mind to hide a grin. "People think I’m a genius."  
"Thank goodness that they don’t come tell you, otherwise you would feel a god!"  
He suddenly sat, pointing his hands forward as if he wanted to attract the attention of someone stupid. "No, listen. It’s not about being a genius, but about being able to use your brain. Ordinary people cannot." I was not going to listen to him, so I resumed my way to my room. "But you can learn! At least a little bit, something within your ability. "  
"Why do you keep involving me? Are you talking about me or the other poor mortals?” No, I would have liked to behave like a mature person, but I couldn’t leave that conversation defeated.  
"The difference is minimal. Now!" he remarked when he saw that I was about to protest. "You know why the pitied Scotland Yard consult me on one case on three, even if they would only need me for a case on two? Because none of them have ever bothered to get an education in crimes. Crimes are like fashions: they’re cyclical."  
“Like planets” I questioned, smirking. Sherlock appeared annoyed and I hide a smile, satisfied.  
"It would be enough," he went, trying to hide his irritation, "to read all the crimes committed in the last two hundred years, find that there’s always a precedent. But nobody does. They all focus too heavily on having a brilliant mind, when it takes enough time spent in the library."  
I turned my heels. "Phenomenal. I'm going to tell Lestrade to transfer the department at the British Library, and to replace the agents with librarians. That would be such a relief to the taxpayers!"  
I finally made my way to my room upstairs. Behind me, Sherlock’s voice came insistent: "It’s the experience that raises the skill! Nothing but experience and a trained mind. Not like yours,which is wasted on a blog that is disappointingly poorly-written".  
The ringing of his mobile covered the curse that came out of my mouth.  
"Sherlock Holmes" he answered, then a moment of silence. "Call a butcher, then, he might be more useful." Another silence joined my dismay. I saw Sherlock smiling ironically. "Brother dear, how was the dentist? Two cavities? Indeed, three. I told you to pay attention to the diet." He leaned back slowly as akin to one’s who’s preparing for a long conversation, but then quickly hung up after saying: "I’ll try to free myself from pressing commitments".  
He dropped his phone on the couch and stared into space. After a full minute I ventured a step forward.  
"So it was Mycroft? Or Lestrade? "  
"Both."  
"Do we have a case?" I asked, anxious to put an end to these demoralizing days.  
"Maybe."  
That was enough to make our unpleasant conversation fall away.

The beautiful Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope was sitting in the hallway, on a shabby green plastic chair with a handkerchief pressed over her mouth, as if she was about to vomit. I was convinced, actually, that this had already happened when she opened the package. Sally Donovan had laid a hand on her shoulder and her lips moved.  
I was observing them through the glass wall of the room that served as the police station where we were gathered. Sherlock and I, Lestrade, Mr. Trelawney Hope and even Mycroft Holmes, the only one currently sitting in the dark corner. As per his custom, he observed the situation before making any effort.  
The object of our attention was placed on top of the table in the middle of the room. It seemed a harmless package, wrapped in a simple yellow crumpled manila. Sherlock would definitely have concluded that the parcel had been opened and then closed with his own paper before being brought to the station, confirming the story of the two famous spouses. Mr. Trelawney Hope, in fact, was no more and no less than the Secretary of European Affairs. The fact that he in person, accompanied by his wife, had taken the trouble to go to the police was a curious fact itself. But not so much as the contents of that package: a human ear lay on soft, clean cotton.  
"These are the facts," Mr. Trelawney began, impatient, with the expression of one who has been forced to tell the story once more. "I was already in my office when my wife called me. It doesn’t happen often, usually I get her calls through my secretary... "  
"So she called you on your mobile," Sherlock pointed out. It wasn’t a question.  
"Yes. She called me on the mobile and I immediately understood that it was something serious. She was very upset and worried. At first I could not understand what she was talking about."  
"She said she had received an ear by mail," Sherlock completed. It was hard to tell which of the two was more impatient.  
"Exactly," said Trelawney annoyed. "But I didn’t return home immediately; I thought it was a joke. I was busy so I took it easy. I arrived home at lunchtime and I discovered then that, indeed, it was a real human ear. My wife wanted to call the police, but I was reluctant as since I’m a prominent figure on the political scene, it’s better to keep from being entangled in such grisly gossips."  
"She wanted to work things out privately and that’s the unfortunate reason why I am here," Sherlock finished from the chair where he had sunken lazily, hands in coat pockets. He turned to Lestrade and his brother. "Is there a real reason why I have been bothered?"  
"The Secretary asked for you and I cannot blame him for this choice" said Lestrade, while Mycroft ignored the question, intent on turning over his mobile in his hands. "However, we usually work together, so everyone's interests may coincide: the police can use their resources to solve the case, while keeping the matter private and officially assigned to you."  
"The police work with me. This isn’t a symbiotic relationship" Sherlock said, completely ignoring Lestrade’s explanation. He stood up and tossed the manila.  
"Sent from England by a French man," he concluded. "Even the Yard could deduce it, the stamp and the postmark are clearly English, the writing belongs to an educated man, but not graduate, late twenties, of French origin or who speaks mainly French, concluded from the error in the spelling 'Trelawney', to 'Trelaweny'. Certainly I don’t need to tell you to analyze the DNA of the ear and the possible saliva on the stamp. Call me when there’s a real case to solve."  
Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock pushed the heavy glass door open, intent on leaving.  
"What if I told you that other body parts were delivered simultaneously to other European countries?" Mycroft’s provocation caught the attention of all who were in the room, including Sherlock’s. Obviously the elder Holmes was the only one to know that aspect.  
"I wasn’t informed!" Trelawney snapped.  
"It's a fresh news" said Mycroft, pointing to the phone. "No offense, Robert…” He looked at Trelawney. He didn’t finish the sentence, but the meaning was obvious.  
Sherlock studied the half-open door for a moment, and then went through it decisively. "I would check the anarchist groups." He left without another word. Before following him, I glanced at the exasperated Lestrade, at the offended Mr. Trelawney and the grinning Mycroft.

On the cab going home, we stayed silent. I mostly by choice dictated by common sense and experience, although I wanted to discuss the strange package.  
"What do you think about the ear?" Finally the question. When Sherlock asked my opinion I was always skeptical. I was sure he had found my answers clumsy and fun in the boredom that a simple case gave him. I had already been the subject of his criticisms, that morning, but his piercing eyes fixed on me were by far the most compelling reason for me to answer.  
"Um... I hadn’t time enough to analyze it thoroughly" I began, trying to build myself an excuse for my probable failure. "It was a right ear."  
"Good" he encouraged.  
"It seems to be a male, judging by the size, but there was a hole for an earring in the lobe, so... a woman with big ears?"  
"Or, more likely, a man wearing an earring. Go ahead."  
I mentally cursed myself for not having thought of a solution so obvious. My initial enthusiasm came to a sudden halt.  
"I don’t think..."  
"John, I don’t lack confidence so much in your observations."  
A compliment hiding a criticism, as usual.  
"I smelled formaldehyde."  
"Of course, otherwise it could not be kept in such a good state of conservation."  
"But it was on the surface, it wasn’t injected. Any embalmer or a person with some medical knowledge would know that, to function properly, formaldehyde needs to be injected."  
"Good." Sherlock nodded. "Then?"  
"Dark skin. Hispanic?" I suggested.  
He nodded again. "Just as Mr. Trelawney."  
I was curious. "Do you think he’s involved?"  
"I don’t think anything at the moment."  
"But you do think it’s an interesting case." I tried to regain points by transforming the question into a statement.  
"Not even close."  
He thrust his head into his coat’s collar and fell silent again.

We were home by lunch time and Sherlock didn’t want to talk about the case. I was quite disappointed by the turn that my day off had taken and I was considering the possibility of a walk before darkness fell, when something came to interrupt my boredom. The bell rang and Mrs. Hudson ushered the visitor upstairs. It was Hilda Trelawney Hope, dressed up in the same grey trench coat, stained by the rain, she was wearing at the police station. She was hugging the handles of the bag as if they were her last foothold. "I have something to add to the story," she said, without preamble.  
"Sit down," I invited her, pointing to a chair near the table. Sherlock was in his armchair and had not greeted her, let alone acknowledged her presence.  
"Would you like to tell us your own version?" I began. She shook her head.  
"What my husband said is true. But there is something left out."  
"You wanted to ask the police for help, and your husband decided to consult me," Sherlock interrupted.  
"Yes. But I realized only now the possible connection with another fact that I would prefer to remain private, at least until we know more."  
"Go on," Sherlock granted her, looking away.  
"My husband’s assistant disappeared a couple of days ago."  
"Did you report the disappearance?"  
Mrs. Hilda retreated her torso into a defensive position "Not really. We're not sure he’s missing. I mean we have not heard from him, but..."  
"Is this assistant Hispanic and has an earring in his right ear?"  
The lady nodded sadly, no surprise: she knew what he was talking about. "Yes."  
"And why do you want to keep this secret? The DNA, however, will confirm who that ear belongs to."  
Mrs. Hilda glanced at the window, biting her lip in a moment of indecision. "He and my husband had a discussion two days ago. A nasty argument. But I know that my husband had nothing to do with his disappearance. Mr. Holmes!" The tone of his voice had risen gradually. "You’re capable and smart, I want you to find the evidences of my husband’s innocence before the police make a scandal!"  
"A discussion about what?"  
"The assistant - his name’s Eduardo Lucas – didn’t have a professional attitude, in the last period; he always arrived late. A couple of times, he was drunk. My husband tried to talk to him, but he was too angry and my husband isn’t very patient. He ended up insulting him and Mr. Trelawney told him not to bother coming back if he was in those conditions again."  
"Who heard this discussion?"  
"A lot of people. My husband has held several meetings at home and that day, one was in progress."  
Despite these revelations Sherlock didn’t seem any more interested than before. The spring afternoon’s grey light emphasized his pallor.  
“What tasks did Mr. Lucas do, as assistant?"  
"He helps my husband in relations with France. He also acts as a performer."  
"Why do you talk about him in the present tense, Madam Trelawney?" he asked in what seemed a note of reproach. The woman was adversely affected.  
"I hope he is still alive!"  
"What kind of relationship did you have with Lucas?"  
"He was often at our house, sometimes stopping for dinner."  
"When did he start to manifest his unusual behavior?"  
"About two weeks before the argument."  
Sherlock finally rose from his chair and walked to the door, staying silent.  
"Well, Mrs. Trelawney, leave the address of Lucas and we’ll see what we can do," I said, to break the tension. Hilda Trelawney left the room with some hesitation, after leaving a note on the table.  
"She found an ear cut off in her hands and now she seeks to defend her husband. What bothers you so much about this woman?" I had been silent all the time, patiently letting Sherlock interrogate her, but now, that I could not give him a bad name, I could try to understand the reason for his rudeness.  
"Ordinary. Impulsive. Sentimental."  
I cought the dig at me and the sting wasn’t pleasant at all.  
As if to underline his displeasure, he picked up his phone and drew it to his ear. "Lestrade. The ear belongs to Eduardo Lucas, personal assistant and interpreter of Trelawney." A pause, his expression remained unchanged. "I read it in my crystal ball, as I do with all cases. Let’s go to this man’s home."  
He hung up; Lestrade was still talking.

I started thinking as we climbed the stairs to the apartment of Lucas on Godolphin Street: it was an unusual case, at least for me. On one simple package: a French sender, English stamp and postmark and Spanish content of the package. I was led to believe the involvement of more people: if a Frenchman had packaged the content an Englishman had sent it, perhaps the Spanish could had been be the instigator? Or it was just a long ruse to cover the tracks? Or both?  
We entered the apartment: it was an old house; ancient, with high ceilings and polished parquet floor. The evidence of the tenant's travels around Europe was visible in the many memorabilia on the walls and supported on wooden furniture, including a collection of antique weapons, not too well maintained. The house seemed in order, more or less, the bed was made, nothing seemed to have been quickly rearranged. I supposed that Lucas hadn’t been kidnapped there, or at least he hadn’t resisted.  
Lestrade had brought two agents with him and they were scouring every corner in search of clues. Sherlock, on the other hand, knew where to look. He looked carefully at the well stocked library, then opened a notebook which – as I peeked in - seemed full of drawings done by a kid. He photographed it with his mobile, then lifted the bed clothes and opened the drawers of the nightstand by the bed. He took out a small, fine white bag with a silk ribbon on one side. I was intrigued, but when I went over my breath was cut off by a wet spray. I coughed and Sherlock read: " _Floris eau de parfum. Sirena._ Oh, what a luxurious gift."  
He threw the bottle and I grabbed it. I turned it over and I read the label, my eyes still watering.  
"I've seen enough," Sherlock said approaching the exit. "I don’t think Mr. Lucas will come back, and the police have all the time they need for their..." He waved his hand in search of a quaint term. "Attempts."

It was almost dark when we returned home. Sherlock didn’t eat, as usual. Though, he didn’t seem to be interested in the severed ear or Lucas’ demise. Indeed, even if I was used to his very discouraging moods, I was impressed by his unwarranted irascibility. Unwarranted for me, at least.  
The rain had ceased falling. Baker Street was quiet and it was dark outside, save for the pale yellow light of the lamppost trying valiantly to illuminate the street. It was still and tranquil – and, well, dull. What intrigued me, however, was Sherlock’s vacant expression as he faced the windows.  
"Not feeling well, are you?"  
"I don’t know, how should I feel when I don’t feel well?" he asked, speaking more slowly than usual.  
I spared him my disbelief and took a guess. "Hot? Cold? Chills and tingling? Pain in your joints?"  
"The last two, yes."  
I nodded. "It must be flu. Or it’s because of this rain. You should rest."  
I was prepared for a contemptuously scornful answer dismissing my advice, but Sherlock stood up and walked slowly towards his room. "Maybe I should."  
I was very surprised, although I had never seen him ill before and didn’t know is this was ‘regular’ behaviour. I was vaguely stunned by his obedience, so I made as if to step behind him.  
"Do you need anything...? Can I get you something? "  
"No." He entered the room.  
"What shall I do with the case of the ear?"  
"What case?" He closed the door. I was dumbfounded.  
"If you need..."  
"John." I heard his voice, muffled by the closed door, but it still seemed to me too conciliatory. "Don’t worry."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much from the bottom of my heart to Ivyblossom and Stravaganza for editing it!

My return to the clinic was not the most relaxing one: a tenacious form of flu led to an influx of elderly and mothers with young children wanting reassurance. During the time it took to separate the actual sick ones from the hypochondriacs, I only had a couple of occasions to send a message to Sherlock and ask him how he felt, having noticed that some of those infected had a high fever. His answer to both messages was 'good', and nothing else.  
I was so busy working that I forgot the investigations on the severed ear and when I got home, long after dinner time because of overtime, I just went to bed.  
The next morning I didn’t see Sherlock, but fortunately I didn’t find myself facing the same siege of sick as the day before, so I had the time to text Lestrade and ask him how the investigation proceeded.

Confirmed DNA Lucas.  
Apartment emptied.

I interpreted the last sentence as a precaution, by the police, in carrying all the material stored in the apartment elsewhere, but since I found it absurd I asked for a further explanation.

Someone has broken  
in the flat and  
has taken everything,  
including the furniture.  
Can you ask Sherlock  
to answer the phone?  
Thank you.

A bit because of the excitement, a little because I wanted to meet Lestrade’s the demands, I wrote to Sherlock too.

News about the case,  
Lestrade must have  
updated you.  
Check your texts!  
How are you?

I received no answer, but the end of my shift was approaching.

I shook the rain from my umbrella before stepping into the apartment. A gloomy light hovered on the living room, but I was impressed to hear that the TV was on: the 6 o'clock news told a gruesome crime story.  
Sherlock was sunk into the armchair with knees pressed against his chest and wrapped in an ugly patchwork quilt that I had never seen, so much that I could see only the top of his head.  
"You didn’t reply my messages" I offered as greeting.  
"The phone is far away" he said in hoarse voice, without taking his eyes off the gruesome images on the screen.  
"But you came here."  
"If I'm here I can’t pick up the phone which is in the other room."  
I left the wet jacket over the back of a chair and reached out toward him. "Fever?"  
He withdrew himself inside blanket like a wounded animal. "Don’t. It annoys me. My skin hurts. "  
I sighed. "Hypersensitivity, it’s normal. Have you ever had a fever before? "  
"Maybe. I don’t remember. It’s not important. "  
"I guess it’s not." Agreeing with him was the best way to avoid me annoying arguments. "Lestrade said that..."  
"I don’t care." He got up immediately, dragging the coloured blanket.  
"But it's your case!"  
"Oh. So there must be another Sherlock Holmes who looks like me and has accepted this case, because I'm sure I’ve never done it."  
He moved in steps trailing toward his room.  
"But things are evolving, you may have something interesting..."  
"Take it, then" he said, stopping before his door.  
I was dumbfounded. The idea was so absurd that I smiled. "But ... I cannot do it."  
"Of course you can. The resolution of it is a different matter, though. "  
Without taking his eyes off me, with a hint of defiance in his eyes, he opened the door and holed back into the dark room.

"Spain, Denmark and Sweden are the countries that have provided us information so far, but I suspect that others don’t want reveal anything." I sensed a tone of anxiety in Lestrade’s words, but it wasn’t due to fatigue from climbing the stairs of the house in Godolphin Street, the next morning. Clearly the matter was becoming complicated: European high office - as Mycroft had already informed us - had received, by mail, parts of a human body. A couple of them had decided to cooperate immediately and send the results to be analysed in the United Kingdom, but others were more reticent, other else were not cooperating in order to avoid scandals and leaks. Allies are more often a source of problems than support, I managed to learn that lesson during my military experience. And then at again home.  
"And ..." Lestrade replied, with a slight anxiety, "what about Sherlock?"  
"In bed. Send me to do the various inspections and I ... I update him." I smiled to give my lie more credibility. Lestrade nodded and said nothing. I knew that the case had begun to worry him seriously and he would have preferred to have Sherlock beside him.  
The detective inspector entered the apartment; I followed him and I noted that the seals had been applied in the doorway were broken. As I was told, the house had been completely emptied: there was nothing, not even a picture, a poster, a carpet. Even all the useless souvenirs were stolen as if they had suddenly acquired some value.  
Only bare walls, floors and ceilings were left. And something else: graffiti. The famous circled ‘A’ was drawn on a wall in black paint. Sherlock had been right to consider the anarchist group. Obviously.  
I tried to replicate the methods used by Sherlock: I wanted to find something interesting to awaken in him an interest in the case, but despite my application there was much to explore. I tried to identify specific footprints in the dust, but all I saw were the traces left by the policemen. I looked for some signs on the walls, but the wallpaper was old and worn out the first time I had visited the apartment and, except for the new graffiti, I could not find anything special.  
As I was about to give up, Lestrade added a new detail. He spoke to me softly: it seemed to be a significant aspect.  
"Sweden, Denmark and Spain have sent us some pictures and results of the analysis: the parts of the body received all belong to Lucas, but the addresses on the packages were written by different hands, and even the stamps changed every time." He looked at the floor, rocking nervously on his heels. "It seems that we are dealing with a wide organization with serious intentions." He looked back at me, a mixture of gravity and pleading in his eyes. "Convince Sherlock. Please. "  
I was impressed by his concern. "I’ll do my best," I assured him, but I had little confidence in my persuasive abilities.

I decided to rely on his pride and narcissism: if I had started my speech telling him he was right about the anarchists, this would certainly have kindled him. Or maybe it wouldn’t; the fact that he had suspected the anarchists from the very beginning could have convinced him even more about the banality of the case. I was now able to interpret his silence, I knew how to translate his moans and I could always read in his eyes the difference between disapproval, disappointment, frustration or excitement for an intriguing murder. However, everything that led to a certain state of mind was often wrapped in my utter ignorance, at least until he himself took the trouble to clarify my doubts.  
In short, when I locked the old green door behind me, I still didn’t know how would I have convinced him to take up the case.  
As I climbed the stairs I tried to figure out why a group of anarchists would have had to empty their hostage’s apartment after the police had already searched it. There was something mysterious in that behaviour, something strange and slightly disturbing. I was really hoping that this particular would have titillated my roommate enough.  
I knocked on his door, but there was no answer. Before opening I called Mrs Hudson.  
"No, I'm a bit worried, John" said her, rubbing her hands, after I had asked her if she had seen Sherlock during the day. "I heard him, actually, but I didn’t see him. I knocked and asked him if he needed anything, because I knew that he had taken this bad flu. He told me he didn’t need anything and to leave him alone. I would have insisted, but you know, when he's in a bad mood his temper scares me." I nodded since she looked very hard for my approval. "I haven’t seen him since then."  
"All right, Mrs Hudson, I’d better go see him. If he’s sick he cannot refuse the help of a doctor.”  
I was the doctor, and I felt slightly guilty: I didn’t take care of him during those last days. Surely his peevishness didn’t make it easy to insist on that topic, most of the time I preferred to leave him to his problems rather than undergo his complaints. But this time I would have done something and if you he has locked his room I would have broken down the door. Or maybe I would have just called a locksmith. In fact, probably Mrs Hudson had a copy of each key of the apartment.  
I knocked again, louder. "I'm coming in." I waited a few more moments for a response that never came. I grabbed the knob, the lock clicked and the door opened without any resistance. The lights were off but the window was open. The curtains billowed rhythmically: outside the wind had risen, the clear curtains were lifted in the direction of the bed. Empty.  
"Sherlock?" Called confused, as if he might suddenly jump out of the closet. To my great disappointment, nothing like that happened. I even knelt to look under the bed, but the room was completely empty. I checked again the whole house, I felt an unpleasant tingling along the neck for each room I found uninhabited.  
"Did you go out, today?" I asked Mrs Hudson on the stairs, placing a hand firmly in front of me, as if I could block the memories that could escape. How could she have forgotten something like that?  
"Mh? Of course, I went out for an hour this morning, I went to the hairdresser," she said.  
"He’s not here."  
This time the landlady was even more amazed. "Not here? Isn’t him at home? Really, John? It can’t be. "  
I was troubled, but I knew that worrying Mrs Hudson wouldn’t have made things easier, so I forced a smile. "Well, he probably went to get some air, there is no need to worry now."  
Get a some air. That phrase was absolutely ridiculous if associated to Sherlock. Two opposite and discordant notes. 'Sherlock Holmes went out to get some fresh air.' It was contradictory itself.  
"Get some air? It’s impossible, he could barely speak to me from his bed! "  
"Don’t worry, I’ll phone him now. In fact, perhaps he texted me and I didn’t notice. There is no reason to worry. Go prepare one of her herbal tea, ok? I'll have a cup too, if you don’t mind."  
After a couple of minutes and some more encouraging pushes on her shoulders, I convinced her to come down in his apartment and leave the rest to me.  
Of course I checked the phone in search of the phantom message, hoping that just talking about it would have appeared, but there was nothing, neither an unread message nor a missed call.  
I dialled his number and listened to the intermittent signals. The phone rang fruitlessly until it was turned on the answering machine. I knew he would have never listened to it so I composed a text: where are you? Just this, so he wouldn’t have time enough to get bored reading it.  
Maybe I was worrying unnecessarily, but the more I tried to convince myself the more my anxiety increased. I had to pull a brake and think rationally and the first name that I associated to 'rational' was the name of Mycroft Holmes.  
"Yes?" he answered after several rings. The voice seemed particularly bored.  
"It’s John." Of course he already knew: he must had read it on the screen and even if he hadn’t he would have known anyway.  
"Yes, John?"  
"Have you spoken with Sherlock, today? Have you see him, perhaps?" Suddenly I heard a hum of voices and I was about to ask if he was with him.  
"No, wait a moment, please." I heard him put a hand over the speaker to muffle the sounds as he talked to someone. A couple of people, maybe. Then the voice came back clearly. "I'm sorry, what were you saying?" The boredom he was addressing me with, taking the situation so lightly, made me feel nervous.  
"Have you seen Sherlock? He’s not at home, I can’t contact him and when I left him he was not well at all."  
"Mh-mh» he assented. "Is this a 'danger day'?"  
It took me a while to understand. "No. No! He’s ill, had a fever "  
"Oh, that sounds new to me. No, sorry, I haven’t heard from him since we met at the police station. And, in this regard, how is the case progressing? "  
"Slowly, since the one who had to take care of it is not available!"  
"Ah. He agreed, then? "  
I always wondered why he asked questions of which he already knew the answer. He knew perfectly that, to Sherlock, the case of the ear wasn’t more interesting than a jar of pickles. His indifference irritated me and I tried to make him participate. Suddenly I wanted to end that conversation as soon as possible.  
"The case is not important now. He’s not with you, then. If you have news let me know, please."  
"Of cour-“ I hung up.  
Despite my bad terms with Mycroft made even thinking of him insufferable, if anything has happened to Sherlock, he would have known it. He always knew. There was nothing to worry about.  
Mrs. Hudson entered the living room accompanied by the slight rattle of ceramic cups on saucers, she stood in the doorway, trying to read my face.  
"Nothing to worry about" I repeated, more to myself than to her.

I remember well that night I spent in bed, trying to follow my routine, but staring at the door of my room and the thin blade of light that penetrated slightly underneath. I had left the light on in the living room, thinking it might have been helpful if Sherlock had returned that night. I remember myself holding my breath at every noise and releasing it as soon as I realized that the timing of those steps was different, that the rustle of the coat was not the same.  
I remember closing my eyes so often, trying to get asleep, that I believed I was only blinking. I remember myself repeating hundreds of times that my anxiety was unfounded, that it had already happened before. I remember I realized that my anxiety would have been unfounded if he had not had a fever, if he had not slipped away just when Mrs Hudson was not at home, if I had sent a text at 3 am telling me to join him in a strange place to look for a corpse with no feet but with shoes on.  
I remember waiting an eternity for that text and watching the dawn.  
I remember hearing a noise at the door, leaping out of bed, tense and exasperated, and I remember how disappointed I was to find out that it was only the postman delivering a package.


End file.
